Legal Disclaimer: This is a satirical rant in the style of George Carlin aimed at public figures and public acts already reported. If you run the war room, take a long look in the mirror — that reflection is now evidence.

He hasn’t declared war. Oh no — that would be too neat, too legal, too Congressy. Little Mikey keeps the House on a part-time schedule — sixteen days? twenty days? pick your insult — while still cashing checks, and the man in the birdbath with the comb-over plays commander-in-chief with action figures and a laser pointer. He makes war noises like a toddler with a toy gun: loud, sticky, and dangerously proud of the mess he’s leaving on the carpet.

So instead of “war,” we get the same thing in glossy PR packaging: “non-state armed groups,” “presidential findings,” covert ops, leaks to friendly scribes — all the bureaucratic wham-bang to turn a fishing boat into headline theater. Translation: we invented a boogeyman so we could shoot something tonight and call it foreign policy. No proof, no oversight, just a finger-painted map and the noise of someone trying to feel important.

Marco Rubio and John Ratcliffe are running this like it’s a summer internship program for coup enthusiasts. The CIA’s getting memos under the table, someone’s whispering “presidential finding” like it’s a magic spell that cancels accountability, and the Pentagon ships in warships like a midlife crisis with a carrier strike group. Ten thousand troops parked like a bad idea in Puerto Rico, eight warships, a submarine, and a president whose foreign policy philosophy is: if it moves, bomb it; if it doesn’t, tweet about it.

Meanwhile, the Secretary of Defense tells reporters to shut up or lose their press credentials — so now the people who are supposed to watch the watchers are standing mute, forced into the morality of the credulous. That’s not “operational security”; that’s censorship by press pass. The Pentagon Press Association calls it a dark day—yeah, dark like the inside of a coffin the administration is trying to build for scrutiny.

And the best part? The FOTUS compares sinking a “drug boat” to public executions in Gaza and shrugs like he’s commenting on a TV show. “They killed a number of gang members,” he says, as if bodies are Yelp reviews. No empathy. No evidence. Just the same impulse: dehumanize, then justify. First you call somebody a “gang,” then you erase them on the water and hope no one notices the license plate.

This isn’t law enforcement. This isn’t war. It’s a spectacle of violence wrapped in the trappings of legality — a theater of cruelty staged to distract from corruption, courts, indictments, and the immense vacuum where competence used to sit. Every missile fired, every “covert action” authorized on a napkin, is a two-minute ad for relevance. When your domestic approval rating is in the gutter, foreign policy becomes nothing more than PR: noise, flash, and the smell of cordite over failing domestic policy.

You do not get to outsource your shame to a Navy destroyer. You do not get to manufacture enemies to paper over incompetence. You do not get to hush the press and call it security. And you certainly do not get to compare this amateur bloodletting to real war crimes and expect anyone with half a soul to nod.

So here’s the headline for the next carnival: the “Peace Prize” candidate fakes bravery with a cruise missile and calls it leadership. He wants a trophy while actual people die in places that barely make his Google Maps list. He wants history to call him a peacemaker while he pisses on the principles that stop countries from sliding into hell.

If this administration wants to play war, they can at least do it by the rules: bring Congress in, show the evidence, let the cameras see the legal breadcrumbs. But they won’t — because that requires responsibility, and responsibility is too heavy for a guy who still thinks a press conference is a place to do stand-up.

So we get leaks and memos and “findings,” a military shuffle on islands, and the spectacle of a president who substitutes violence for credibility. He didn’t declare war because he can’t be bothered with the inconvenience of checks and debates. He’d rather stage a midnight raid, leak the narrative, and call it decisive.

This is not strength. This is cowardice with explosions. This is the worst kind of showboat: loud, flashy, and empty. And while they jostle for medals and headlines, the rest of us are left to pay for the theater—bodies, refugees, broken lives, and the long, ugly bill democracy will have to settle when the curtain finally falls.